


The Time We Lost, the Time We Mended

by ChromaticDreams, The-Ill-Doctor (FandomVirusPatient)



Series: Lost and Found [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Fluff, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Romance, Slice of Life, additional characters and tags to be added as they become more relevant, and then it spirals into..., this is a fiddauthor reunion fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-02-21 23:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13154490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChromaticDreams/pseuds/ChromaticDreams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomVirusPatient/pseuds/The-Ill-Doctor
Summary: Before the summer of 2012, Ford and Fiddleford never thought they'd get the opportunity to see each other again.Now... they have a second chance. A chance to rekindle the love they once shared, reconnect a family once lost, and to mend old wounds. But as they'll quickly discover, fixing the mistakes of the past, especially in the wake of inevitable apocalypse, doesn't always come easy.





	1. Real

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of months of frenzied RPing, and our wish to share our Fiddauthor fluff and angst with the world. In the original RP, the-ill-doctor wrote Fiddleford, Mabel, Bill, and Tate, and I wrote Ford, Stan, and Dipper. It's being cleaned up and modified into fic format for easy reading, and we hope you enjoy!
> 
> A warning towards the beginning of this chapter for non consensual touching.

Stanford Filbrick Pines wondered for a moment if he was simply going mad.

He rapped his fingers against his desk, knowing that maintaining any degree of focus on the diagrams and equations he’d transcribed was fruitless. Their study was silent, but today the silence spoke louder than any rehearsed words could.

Surely he’s not the only one who notices. Not the only one who’s slipped back into that familiar college domesticity they once shared. Not the only one who can’t seem to keep from touching him... Their unspoken spark manifests primarily in those small, affectionate, _longing_ touches- a hand pressed to the other's shoulder for a second too long, a gentle brush against his fingers as they talked over breakfast in the morning- the kind of contact that traditionally, wasn’t shared between men of their age. At least, not men whose relationship could simply be catalogued as that between ‘close friends.’

"Fiddleford?" he called out, finally having built up the nerve. "Fidds? Can... can we talk? _Please?”_

Ford’s partner glanced away from his work for the moment, answering his plea. A warm glow searing through the study’s window illuminated half of that man’s face. Behind round frames, intelligent blue eyes meet his soul halfway, and his lungs tightened, feeling as if the whole horizon had come to rest upon him at the realization of all the thoughts and feelings he’d yet to fully impart.

“Yes, Ford?”

Stanford was sure he’d only blinked, but Fidds now sat directly adjacent to him, features draped in curiosity, eager to hear what he had to say. The southern man nervously tugged at the hairs at the nape of his neck as he waited for Ford to speak.

In retrospect he’s actually not sure what words come out of his mouth, but whatever they were, it proved enough to evoke a positive response from his old lover.

“Golly I- I thought it was just me,” Fidds choked out between happy tears, suddenly caressing his cheek. “You really still feel this way?”

He answered with a kiss, feeling his heart soar as Fiddleford eagerly reciprocated. Ford’s hands threaded through his hair, pulling him as close as he could, wanting— no, _needing_ — to feel the rhythm of his chest against his own. His mind swam in an infinitude of directions, never quite touching ground. He was kissing air, embracing daydreams.

He felt light’s warmth against the back of his neck, his best friend in his arms, and the last components of his world slotting neatly into place.

“I almost can't believe this is real," Ford breathed, their foreheads now resting against each other’s. This sentiment proved overtly cheesy the moment it left his lips, but nevertheless its meaning held true. Somehow, by some strange force of reality, everything fell into place perfectly. Almost... too perfectly.

Fiddleford laughed softly, the man leaning close enough to him that his breath tickled his face. His eyes were obscured by the deep shadows his brow cast.

“Are ya’ _sure_ it’s real?”

The mood dropped, through the floorboards and into the maw of that forsaken basement that lay beneath their feet. As he backed away, his lover’s eyes flashed yellow. Ford shook his head in denial, for a moment not wanting to believe that he’d been tricked— _been tricked again, all these years later and he still fell for that demon’s ploys and—_ NO! No. Y-yes? He was right. This wasn’t real, couldn’t be real, _couldn’t be re_ -

It was at that moment that ‘Fiddleford’s’ mouth split into an awful, unnaturally wide smile, and it was then that he couldn’t deny the awful truth any longer.

He tried to jerk away. " _No!_ Get- get away from me!!” he shouted, working desperately to wrestle from his grip, but to no avail.

‘Fiddleford’ gripped his wrist with a force Ford knew was unrealistic to his true ability. “What’s wrong, suga’? I thought ya’ said you loved me?”

His voice. Sounded wrong. All wrong. It was completely _his,_ completely Fiddleford’s, except it had been siphoned of all the warmth it usually held. The room turned to ice, the light once streaming in from the window growing uncustomarily dim. Fidds leaned closer, mockingly puckering his lips.

"Bill! BILL! Stop this!" he hissed, averting his face as best he could, quivering in fear. _Oh g-god, he couldn't tell if this were a nightmare, or the mindscape, or reality, o-or..._ Tears streamed down his cheeks. He felt like everything he thought he knew was fragmenting.

Fiddleford’s— no, _Bill’s_ — eyes glowed, the pupils lengthening into slits. Ford felt his limbs go slack, and suddenly powerless to stop him, Bill Cipher lifted his stolen hands to caress his cheeks and wipe away his tears, managing to almost perfectly mimic Fidds’ gentle touch. Subtly he flinched away at the feather-light sensation, trying to keep from eliciting a reaction.

“FACE THE MUSIC, Stanford!” Bill said manically, shades of the demon’s true voice slipping in through the edges. “You’re old. You’re _broken_ . _Incapable_ of love or of ever _being_ loved. Luckily, just like me, what you ARE good at is some good ol’ fashioned _destruction!”_ In an instant, the caresses quickly turned rough, and his fingers curled inwards.

Ford screamed as he felt nails sharpen into points and break through skin, thrashing in his vice-like grip. With all the strength he could muster, he kicked his knee up into Bill's gut, swiping at him with his arms, using any limb he could to get away. As a last resort he swung his skull straight into Bill's stolen face, assuredly breaking the other’s nose. Instantly, he began to feel woozy from the impact of delicate brain tissue against bone, realizing all too late what a risky idea physically using his head to get away was.

Thankfully, the blow was enough to knock Bill— who hollered in pain—tumbling onto the floor. Ford stumbled backwards himself, taking heaving breaths. He prepared himself internally to fight again, holding his hands in tight fists by his side.

However, the fearful eyes that darted to meet his own were no longer his enemy’s.

“F-Fiddleford, please” he stuttered in horror, and held out his hands repentantly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m-“

The man slid himself away on the floor, away from him, expression boiling over with panic. "How could you? How could you attack me like this?!" he said, gripping at his hair. "I thought you promised you'd never hurt me again!"

“But I saw-” Ford sputtered in shock, splaying his hand across his face. Where he just felt Bill slice his face open was nothing but smooth, whole, blemishless skin. "-I thought you were... o-oh my god." Horror dawns on his face. This couldn't be happening. _It was- it was all just-_

Fiddleford curled up brokenly against the wall, cradling his injured nose. He’d already begun to swell and bruise around one of his eyes.  "Y-You lied to me. All this time we've been together ‘n I keep getting hurt!"

_-it wasn’t ever real. It was only ever his own sick delusions._

Everything around him felt like it was spinning. Orbiting around him, around an inescapable black hole, about to be torn to mere quarks and protons under the surface of the event horizon. Fiddleford lay prone beside his feet, the man’s eyes oscillating between normal and sickly yellow. Had to ground himself. Ignore. Avoid... He raised his own hands, began counting to six. _One-two-three-four-five-six one-two-three-four-five-six one-two-three-_ But the task was fruitless, and he could barely focus on them without the digits melding together and apart, the skin wrinkling and then fading smooth, like violent tides churning in and out. Ford crumpled to his knees, gripping at his head. Shadows clouded his mind and he let out a loud, keening cry.

And as he sank to the floorboards, Fidds only rose higher. Soon he was looming over him, holding his palm flush against his swollen eye.

"The Gremloblin... the shapeshifter... that damned _portal!”_ Fiddleford hissed, his voice trembling less and less. "It was you... All you! It’s _your_ fault this happened!”

As he approached, he pulled a familiar device from behind his back. A sliver of light bounced through the bulb and off of its metallic casing. Frantically, Ford crawled away backwards, stumbling against the frame of his desk. He was cornered. Trapped. He extended a trembling arm.

“No- _no,_ _please…!”_

"It’s _your_ fault Tate didn't have a father anymore,” he spat, advancing to press the bulb flush to Ford’s temple, finger extended over the trigger. The bulb flashed blue. “It’s YOUR fault I _lost_ _my mind!!”_

Ford woke up with a shout, snapping upright on the couch like a spring had been affixed to his back. He took a moment to catch his breath, to make inventory of the empty parlor he sat in and let the memory of his most recent night terror fade. The finer details were already too fuzzy to recall, but nevertheless the overarching theme of it remained. Shame burning at his cheeks, he buried his greyed, wrinkled face into his knees. He was old, haggard, full of regrets, full of laughably embarrassing paranoia- _this_  was his reality. No more sleep for tonight, he couldn't take it any longer. He was supposed to be safe in this dimension, and yet his nightmares were only getting worse and worse.

He adjusted the crooked glasses on the bridge of his nose. Perhaps, rather than attempt to sleep any longer this morning, his time would be better spent hard at work. Forget Stan’s insistence that he needed to ‘get some shut eye’ before he passed out. He knew his sleep pattern (or lack thereof) intimately, and once he’d awoken from a nightmare there was no chance he’d find himself getting any more rest. Or at least, not rest free of nightmares. He kicked the weighted blanket off his legs and swung his feet over the side of the couch, his mind whirring to life slowly as he began to consider what precisely he should do with his time now.

Soon, a small knock at the door caught his attention.

"Grunkle Ford?"

Ford ran his hands through the front of his hair, not quite at a state of consciousness suited to interact with children, _or_ to even determine which one of them was calling on him. "Come in,” he said hesitantly, unsure as to why anyone besides him was up at this time.

Slowly, shyly… the door swung ajar. Mabel peaked through the crack almost impishly, her long brown tresses framing her face. She smiled softly at him, but concerningly, this smile never reached her eyes. With everything Ford knew about the child this was unlike her. His brow furrowed. Something must be bothering her.

"What's wrong, my dear?"

In seconds she had crossed the room and latched herself to his side. Minutely he flinched, still not used to unexpected physical contact like this, but soon relaxed into the embrace.

"I heard you scream,” she whispered. “Are you okay?"

Ford's features immediately softened. This child cared enough about a near stranger to express worry when she heard signs of distress at three in the morning. He both admired and was thankful for her compassion. However, no one but him deserved to suffer under the weight of his burdens, and thus he couldn’t- in good favor- tell her the truth. No child her age needed to know the depth at which a weary old man like him regretted his past.

"Oh Mabel... I'm so sorry you had to hear that. Yes,” he lied, deliberately smoothing out the roughness in his voice. “Yes, I'm alright. Don't you worry about me. Now, it’s past three in the morning. How about we get you back to bed?"

Mabel tightened her hold around his midsection and shook her head. "But what if you have another nightmare again? I don't wanna leave you by yourself!”

Ford glanced at her for a moment, the hints of a smile crossing his face. A deep love and affection stirred in his heart. She wanted to protect him from his nightmares. And as much as he wanted to escape into the basement, the last thing he'd want to do is give away a chance to get to know her.

"All right then," he said with a soft chuckle, "since it appears we’re both _decisively_ wide awake, what would you suggest? We could make hot chocolate? See what's on TV? We'd have to be quiet though- I’d hate to wake our brothers."

And like a spring reliably completing another cycle of oscillation, Mabel's smile returned. "Maybe we can do both!" she chirped, excitedly tugging at his sweater sleeve. "Me and Dipper figured out the perfect volume to put the TV on to not wake up Grunkle Stan and still hear everything!"

"That sounds lovely," Ford replies. And, smirking guiltily: "Truth be told, I don't desire to return to bed either.”

The girl was positively glowing now.

"Then you can spend the rest of the night with me! It'll be our own private slumber party!"

She placed a solitary finger over her mouth, a pantomime hint that they should remain as quiet as possible, and giggled softly. He wiggled his own fingers in response, gesturing for her to take hold of his hand.

“Shall we, my dear?”


	2. Cocoa and Comfort

The two traveled through the downstairs hallway to the kitchen, having to refrain themselves from giggling in the knowledge of the secret three am bonding time they were about to have together.

"I'll get the chocolate mix while you get the milk," Mabel whispered once they reached their destination, climbing on the counter-tops to reach the higher shelves.

Ford nodded, opening the fridge to locate the milk carton. It thankfully only took a second to find it among the utter disaster that was Stan’s unorganized fridge, but a pitcher standing adjacent made his eyebrows raise. ‘Mabel juice?’ What on Earth was…? Shaking his head and resolving not to ask (at least not right now), he grabbed the carton and closed the door. Truth be told, there was only one thing he questioned at this moment.

"Mabel, sweetie... is there a real reason you're awake at three am? Surely I couldn't have _really_ woken you up. The attic isn't exactly close to my room."

Mabel hugged the container of chocolate mix against her chest. Her smile wavered suspiciously, and she let out a nervous giggle. "W-What do you mean? There's nothing wrong!" she said, forcing a grin.

He reached out to help her climb off the counter, and hugged her close. He could feel his own voice waver as he spoke. "I've— I’m afraid I— I’ve used that excuse far too much myself to be fooled by it.”

"No no, really, I was just uh- getting some water!" she stammered, doing her best to keep smiling. "That's it... just gettin’ me some cool… refreshing..." Her smile started to shrink, betraying her. She sighed, burying her face in his turtleneck. Her hair covered her ears like a curtain. "Water..."

“How about we help each other?" Ford suggested, although he recognized that he'd have to keep the full scale of what he remembered of his nightmare tamed down so as to not frighten her. "If I tell you what's bothering me, will you let me understand what's bothering you?"

"I guess that's fair." She peaked her face out from his sweater, giving him big puppy dog eyes.. "But… But can we make the hot chocolate first? It's easier to talk with sweets,” she stated, her voice soft and extra childlike as she spoke.

He chuckled warmly. "I agree. Sweets make everything a little better."

Mabel perked right up at that. "Great! I'll grab the mugs!"

Ford glanced at the milk carton in his hands for a second too long, his mind falling blank. Damn, he hadn't made anything like this in years. Since college, at least. "Mabel, sweetie? It's been a while since I've made cocoa, and-"

"Just warm the milk up in a saucepan, and then we’ll mix the powder inside,” she quickly explained while grabbing the mugs, and hopped back to the ground.

“All right, I suppose that’s simple enough,” he said, mostly to himself more than anything. _Blindingly simple, you slow old man._ He procured a saucepan from under the cabinet and once he turned the stove on, promptly began heating the milk, humming quietly as he did so.

"Don't let it get too hot,” Mabel warned, setting a bag of marshmallows on the counter.

Ford nodded, and lowered the stove to a low simmer. Very soon, the milk seemed to have reached a good temperature. He gestured for Mabel to toss the chocolate mix in. Mabel being Mabel of course, poured in a very generous amount of chocolate. A cloud of the powder shot up from the saucepan unexpectedly, coating the pair in chocolatey goodness.

"Haha! I have to say, I admire your sweet tooth," Ford said, brushing powder off his nose. "As a kid, I always told Stanley that there was no such thing as too much chocolate. He thought I was crazy, but I always enjoyed buying those extra dark bars as a treat when I had the money for it."

Mabel giggled, beaming at him. "Yeah, Dipper always looks at me funny whenever I pour extra, extra, extra sprinkles but that won't stop me, no siree! Even these braces can't slow me down!"

"Well, you _do_ have to be delicate with those," Ford chuckled, raising a brow as he poured the cocoa into the mugs, "but I certainly won't stop you either." And with a hint of mischief mirrored in his eyes… "In fact, I might even join you."

"Yay!" she cheered, shooting her hands into the air.

"Alright, now let's take these to the living room. We can sit on the couch." Before he could begin the pilgrimage however, Mabel had secured a vice like grip around his lower leg, crossing her own around his and sitting on his foot like a seat. “Are you having fun, my dear?” he asked, a wry smile on his lips. She nodded enthusiastically.

Holding both mugs, Ford slowly walked out of the kitchen and into the next room, making sure to tread carefully on the floorboards he knew creaked under pressure.

Ford sat down, slightly startled at how much the cushion sank. Clearly Stanley had spent a great deal of time making an imprint in this seat over the years. Playfully, he shook Mabel off his leg. She released him from her grip with a devious snicker, then climbed onto the couch next to him. Grateful, she took the mug he offered her.

"Thank you!" she smiled, and leaned against him to cuddle.

"You're very welcome," he said, and ruffled the top of her head. "And thank you for reminding an old soul it's okay to have a sweet tooth," he added with a laugh, taking a sip of his cocoa. "Now, regarding our agreement... would you like to have the floor first, or would you rather I start?"

Mabel frowned and curled up closer against him. She looked as nervous as a child caught in the spotlight for the first time. "Y-you first, please."

Ford shifted on the couch so he could hold an arm around Mabel and his cocoa at the same time, and began to consider how he should go about explaining his nightmare in a manner that wouldn't require knowledge of Bill, or anything that might frighten the girl. She waited patiently for him to speak, her eyes expressing a genuine compassion that he didn’t often find in children her age.

"Much of the earlier bits of the dream have since faded away from me,” he began slowly, nursing his cocoa. “But unfortunately I can recall enough of the essentials. At first, I remember… I dreamt about a very, very close friend of mine. A friend I've since lost track of entirely. The dream began as a happy one— I was able to reconnect with him.”

Mabel sipped at her cocoa, listening intently. As she lowered her drink, he saw a small milk mustache on her upper lips. The sight brought a laughter to his heart despite the somber circumstances of his story.

"Then what happened?" she asked.

Ford sighed deeply, images of sickly yellow tinged eyes haunting his memory. "Well, um... let's just say that without any warning, my dream took a turn for the worst, and suddenly I began to perceive my friend as a monster. A monster that wanted to harm me, like the few you and Dipper mentioned you've stumbled across this summer."

Mabel frowned apologetically at him. "Oh no, I'm sorry, Grunkle Ford. If it helps, I don't think your friend _really_ wants to hurt you."

"I'm afraid it's not that I'm most upset about, my dear," Ford said quietly, hugging her close. "In self-defense, I attacked the monster back. But the moment I did, the monster I thought I saw faded.... and I realized that all along I had been the one to hurt him." Ford found his voice wavering. "H-he couldn't even look me in the eye! And I suppose this reminded me far too much of what really happened between us."

Mabel's eyes watered. She could see clear as day how hurt her great-uncle was. Sure, he seemed a little rough around the edges when they first met, but she just _knew_ he was a good person. "Did you ever say sorry, at least? Sorry and hugs can make a lot of things better!”

"I never got the chance," Ford replied, eyes full of sorrow. "In reality, he left before I ever could realize my mistakes."

Mabel set her cocoa mug aside and tightened her hug. "Well, why not look for him? I'm sure he'd forgive you!" she whimpered, a stray tear streaming down her face.

"Oh Mabel, sweetie," Ford whispered, his heart breaking to see her in such a state because of him. He gently wiped the tears from her eyes. "Please don't cry! I'll be alright, I promise. That was a long time ago, and sometimes... sometimes I'm afraid people can't fix everything."

Mabel sniffled, wiping at her nose as she pulled away from his embrace. "No! It _can_ be fixed! People can't... th-they shouldn't… People who care about each other shouldn't break away like that! Why is it so easy for people to do that and not try to fix things?"

He found himself speechless for a moment, mind toiling in conflict. "I— I'm afraid I don't know."

Mabel started to dab her eyes with her sleeves. "It's _scary,"_ she said. "It's scary that people get all stupid and just... just don’t forgive each other."

Ford's eyes widened slightly, as the full weight and meaning of her statement began to dawn upon him. "Is this... is this what was upsetting you earlier?"

Mabel nodded and hugged him again, needing the comfort.

He curled his arm tighter around her, ruffling her hair. He tried to connect the dots- figure out what exactly could have gotten her to start worrying about such a thing. Obviously, it couldn’t have been the story about him and Fiddleford, as reportedly she’d been worrying about this before he’d talked about his nightmare… “Did something happen between you and Dipper, sweetie?” he asked, moving to the next logical possibility. “If that’s the case, I’m sure you’ll have it figured out within a day or two. You two seem to get along together splendidly, and whatever the issue is I’m positive you’ll be able to resolve it."

Mabel shook her head. "No, we're not fighting but… What if... what if one day we do and never make up? He's not just my brother, he's my best friend."

Oh, Mabel,” he sighed sadly, aching at the sight of her in such a state. “If you’re not fighting, why are you so worried about this?”

"Because, it happened with you and Grunkle Stan! It happened with the friend in your dream! And it happened with you and Old Man McGucket!”

Ford’s mind screeched to a halt at that name. Old Man McGucket. _McGucket._ How could she _possibly_ know that name and about their past friendship? It seemed astronomically impossible. Nonsensical! As far as he knew, Fiddleford left town when he quit, he returned to California, he-

“I don't want that to happen to us too,” she finished, in a terrified whisper.

As much as he desired to immediately barrage her with questions about her knowledge of Fiddleford, Ford knew that right now his duty was to comfort Mabel, or at least to try to. Forget Fidds for just one moment, forget the sorrowful reminder of all the broken relationships he’d left in his wake. Priority number one was Mabel. He covered his mouth with his hand, almost unsure of what to say or how to respond or how to even emotionally approach the topic.

“Oh no, I’m so, so sorry my mistakes have caused you to worry about your own relationship with your brother,” he eventually said, sincerity written all over his face. “You shouldn’t have to be forced to consider such scenarios at your age. In fact, _no_ one should have to worry about these things.”

He gently tilted her chin up, so he could look her in the eye. “I want you to understand. When it comes to what happened between Stanley and I, and… and yes, also with McGucket… the situations are… well, they’re complicated. They’re certainly not issues I would expect to occur between anyone else. Dipper and you have a close bond, Mabel— I can tell. You’re both good at communicating, and I think that’s precisely what Stanley and I lacked. You’ll be okay.”

Mabel continued to sniffle as he spoke. While she knew what happened to Ford and the others was very situational, she still couldn't help but feel anxious. "Really?" she asked, wiping her tears with her sleeves.

“I’m positive you’ll be okay, sweetie. And if for the nil probability anything ever does happen? I’ll be here for you, I promise.”

In a flash, the girl had wrapped her arms tightly around his back. "Thank you, Grunkle Ford."

Ford returned her embrace, gently stroking her hair. He felt the tickly whistle of air from her nose, which she’d pressed into his shoulder. “Now, I hope you don’t mind if I ask, but… you mentioned my friend, the one I dreamt about. McGucket. You seemed to know who he was.” A hope glinted in his heart, the kind of hope he hadn’t experienced in a long while. “Do you- have you _met_ him? Here? This summer?”

Mabel visibly recoiled at his question. "Well..." She hesitated for just a split second. "Yes, Dip-Dop and me met him at the lake a few weeks ago, and we’ve talked a little since! He still lives in town... in the junkyard."

Ford's eyes filled with emotion, and he appeared on the verge of tears. "The... the junkyard?" he confirmed, although it was more or less him trying to wrap his mind around this new sad reality. "Oh, Fiddleford," he sighed in sorrow, his face dropping into his hands. "What have I done to you?"

"H-He said he used this memory gun thingy too much and forgot almost everything,” she explained softly. "But," she said, forcing her voice to be a tad more cheery, "he's getting better now! I think?"

Ford dabbed at his eyes and sat up to face Mabel, his face suddenly serious. "Mabel, can you tell me where this junkyard is? In fact— no, can you show me? I— I need... I need to find him," he eventually stuttered out. "I need to help him! I don't think I could live knowing he's spending this night in the cold..."

"Let me get my coat." Mabel said without any hesitation.

 

 


	3. Junkyard

 

Mabel chugged down the rest of her hot cocoa at a frightening speed, considering its temperature, and ran upstairs with quiet stocking feet to get her coat and shoes on. Ford followed in her footsteps by retrieving his own boots in this time. They reconvened in the entry hall at the bottom of the stairs not too long after, both dressed for a cool mid-night excursion. In addition to her cozy looking hooded coat- likely the sort of item packed by a parent as a last minute precaution for freak weather, ‘just in case’-  she hugged a blanket in her arms.

"I thought we could warm him up in the car," she suggested, peering up at him with wide, adoring eyes. The girl earnestly wanted to help. It’d been so, so long since he’d been around anyone who cared this much for him to give a helping hand.

"That’s a lovely idea," Ford said with sincerity, and ruffled the hair on her head, much to her delight. Her giggle was a melody in and of itself. "Now, if only I can figure out where Stan keeps his keys?"

"Check his coat pocket, maybe?" Mabel offered, pointing at the coat rack. "Just don't get poked by his pocket knife!"

Ford rushed to the aforementioned coat and began fishing through the interior pocket. His fingers deftly avoided the knife she mentioned, and soon after… "Ah ha, found it! Nice thinking, Mabel." He pulls out the key to the car, suspended on a ring with a few others. House and mailbox, likely. He grinned. "Now! Time to perform a covert getaway."

“Yay!" Mabel cheered, prancing to the door. "Rescue! Rescue! Rescue!"

Ford gently shushes her. "All right, my dear... it's time for us to remain as quiet as possible. I don't want to wake Stanley up and have him know I drove his car into town. I doubt he'd let me if he knew." He lead her out the door and to the ‘Stanley-Mobile’ by the hand. Then, after unlocking the car and positioning himself at the optimal distance and angle in the driver's seat, he proceeded to observe the dashboard with the same awed lack of understanding he’d apply to a new species of magical specimen.

 _Damn,_ he thought. _I haven't driven an earth vehicle like this in over thirty years._

Mabel crawled into the front passenger seat, fastened her seat belt, and peered up at him excitedly. Eagerly. In waiting. He swallowed hard, memory suddenly spawning upstream decades ago to his first attempt at the driver’s test a few days past his sixteenth birthday. Oddly enough he found himself under a great deal more pressure _now_ than he ever experienced back then. Eventually however, the key found its way into the ignition despite his shot nerves, and Ford fussed with the gear shift. He shot an ancillary glance behind him as he prepared to back up, but the car lurched forward instead. His foot slammed on the break.

"Uuuh... Grunkle Ford?"

His attention gravitated towards the gear shift labels, and he realized with embarrassment that he’d put the car into drive instead of reverse. A sheepish grin crossed his lips. "What is it, sweetie?"

"You _do_ remember how to drive, right?"

"Well, um..." Ford scratched at the back of his head nervously, trying hard not to let the embarrassment ruin his resolve to reach the junkyard. "It's been a while since I’ve commandeered an Earth vessel I suppose, so it’s not what I’m used to, but..."

"But?"

"But I'm sure I'll pick it up again in no time!" he finished, countenance snapping right back to a chipper attitude.

"That's the spirit!" Mabel chirped.

"That’s one mystery solved,” Ford said, shifting into reverse. “Now, where's my blinker?"

"Isn’t it that twisty thing by the steering wheel?"

He pulled 'the twisty thing' down. Windshield wiper fluid sprayed onto the front of the car. Thankfully, the car’s windows were rolled up- otherwise they would have received quite an unwelcome shower. "Okay, it's... it's definitely not that," he muttered, his eagerness fading slightly. "Oh, well! It's nearing three thirty in the morning. Who could possibly be on the roads at this time besides us?" His foot lifted off the break and began to pull out of the parking spot in the driveway in reverse.

Ford's driving was... subpar, at best, and nearing cataclysmic failure at worst. No one needed give criticism for him to recognize this personal failure. In fact, if he were more reasonable he probably should have woken Stanley up and asked him to drive to ensure his and Mabel's safety. At least he’d been driving regularly for the past thirty plus years. But it was far too late to turn back now. As long as he got them both there in mostly one piece he'd call it a success.

"Next right, you said?"

Mabel nodded from within her ultra plush cocoon. She’d tangled herself in her blanket for the duration of the ride. The whole way she fed him turn-by-turn instructions, acting as his own personal map. To his surprise she seemed genuinely unfazed by his bad driving. (Although now that he thought about it, that made more sense than he originally accounted for, considering she'd been dealing with _Stanley's_ driving skills all summer…)

Ford pulled into the junkyard with relative ease for once this trip, and instantly came face to face with the reality of his old friend’s living situation. ‘Junkyard’ didn’t even come close to describing the rusty desolation decorating these grounds. Heaping piles of trash and scrapped metal surrounded the lot, and at the center sat a hut fashioned from metal scrap and any spare wood or concrete his friend could get his hands on. The phrase ‘McSuckit’ was spray painted on the side of the corrugated metal sheets that formed the structure’s walls. The lettering appeared faded at a top corner and bright as day everywhere else, as if the owner tried to mop the mess up with soap but lost heart halfway through.

"Oh god," he said, choking on his words, everything within him breaking at the knowledge that he left Fidds like this, homeless, living like a vagrant. He knew from his rougher days in the multiverse what that kind of life was like, and it wasn’t something he’d wish on anyone he loved.

Mabel walked over and gently brushed his fingers with hers. His hand sought out her encouraging, youthful warmth, and for a long moment they stood at the edge of the yard, tightly holding hands. It was a small but readily welcomed comfort. He swallowed nervously, inwardly strengthened by the girl’s presence next to him, and began to walk with her towards the hut.

A soft green tinted light bloomed from inside, pooling out from rotting holes in the door. At intervals, loud clanging emanated from the bowels of the dilapidated home as though someone were rummaging around. "I think he's awake," Mabel whispered, tugging at his arm. "We can't be too loud, or else he gets startled easy."

Inwardly Ford shrinks. His heart is beating even faster than it was when he faced Cipher in the midst Nightmare Realm a few days ago. "Mabel, I don't think I can do this,” he says in a quiet panic. “I don't know what to say or do, or if he'll even remember me, or-"

"It'll be _fine,"_ she said, beaming with optimism, pulling him towards the front door. "Sure, he's kooky and builds the occasional killer robot, but he's still a nice old man!"

“But you see, the fact of the matter is,” Ford began nervously, fingers twitching around her hand, “the last time I saw him, we didn’t exactly leave on good terms…”

He heard something clatter to the ground (tin. It had to be something made of tin) from inside the hut, and flinched.

"DAGNABBIT, THOSE CRITTERS HAVE BEEN RUMMAGIN’-ING THROUGH MY EMERGENCY SNACKS AGAIN!" a shrill voice yelled from inside the old hut.

Ford glanced at Mabel for reassurance, and at her encouraging slowly reached up to knock on the doorway of the metal shack. In response, the two heard a loud shout from inside. "Now, who on earth could that be in this hour?!" Freezing, he opened his mouth, but for the life of him could not produce any halfway reasonable sound. He stared at the child next to him desperately, an obvious fear grappling at his bones.

Accepting his hint, Mabel took the lead. "Old Man Mcgucket! Sorry to bother you, but it's me! Mabel!" she said, sounding as cheery as ever even for the god awful hour of three am.

"Mabel! Welcome!” Fiddleford said from inside happily. The hut’s door swung open and he scampered out on all fours. "Don't know what _yer_ doin up so late, but-" He froze dead in his tracks when he first saw Ford.

Now, he was never proficient at deciphering a most of Fiddleford’s expressions back when he was a _young_ man either, but tonight stole gold for the record of most indecipherable. His eyes were glassy like a pair of polished marbles, almost foggy, as he stared at him, jaw slightly agape. His brows twitched. He could have been surprised, utterly angry, enchanted, disappointed, any imaginable mixture of these...

Ford drank in the sight of his old friend in front of him in silence for a good deal of time, trying his best to remain his composure and not cry for Mabel’s sake. He wore nothing but a ratty pair of overalls and bandages on his feet. His snowy white beard nearly draped on the ground with the angle at which he hunched his back. He looked like skin and bones. What on earth happened to him? And yet beyond it all, the man’s blue eyes shown soft and bright. Despite everything, Ford still found such a deep intelligence within those eyes, and even… distant familiarity?

“Fiddleford?” he said hesitantly, still scared to edge too close.

"Stanford?" Fiddleford straightened himself up, rising to his full height momentarily to gain a better look, his face awestruck. He took a few hesitant steps toward him.

Before Ford could get another word in edgewise, his old friend climbed up his frame like a spooked squirrel scurrying up the side of a tree for refuge, and wrapped his limbs in a vice around his torso. He nearly stumbled backwards in surprise, but supported the man’s lower back, ensuring he wouldn’t fall. His nerves jolted as he felt the tickle of his beard and breath against the side of his face. It seemed any and all sense of personal space was out the window. Fiddleford squinted closely at him.

He desperately wanted to say something, anything, but feared he’d spook him away if he so much as made a peep.

The old hillbilly was the first to slice through the nighttime stillness. "Y-yer real," he whispered. His enigmatic expression softened into emotion more recognizable as pleasant surprise. "Stanford... Stanford Pines..."

He softly laugh with relief. He remembered him! “Yes! It’s me,” he said, a novel hope blooming within him, adjusting his hold of him. “It’s me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I’ve been gone for so long… You were right, Fiddleford, about everything.”

Fiddleford grinned tightly, green light glimmering off the corner of his gold tooth. He leaned close, so close that their foreheads bumped against each others’, and pressed his hands against his cheeks. "Ford..."

“Y-yes?”

 _"Yer darn tootin' I was right!"_ he scolded, eyes aflame with a weak ire that had surely eroded over these last thirty years. "But... But I forgive you, ya’ coot. Come ‘ere!” He wrapped his arms tighter around his neck.

Ford gladly buried his face into Fiddleford’s chest at the offer, closing his eyes and allowing the heat of his old friend’s body- the rhythm of his heart, the promise of his existence- lull his nerves into a state of peace.

“Why?” he asked, voice broken and muffled. “I’ve done nothing but hurt you and cause you trouble all my life- in college, as my assistant, even now!”

"Oh, hush!" Fiddleford scowled. He placed a hand at his jaw, and tilted his head up so he’d look him in the eyes instead of boring holes into the ground. "Listen, I'm tired of forgettin'! I _wanna_ forgive you!" His scowl quickly softened into a smile. "And I don't need a dangum reason to."

Ford smiled blearily, powerless to stop tears from forming at the corners of his eye. His hands quivered in that familiar, nervous way they hadn’t in quite some years. All too soon, however, the weight of his friend caught up with his aching back. He wouldn’t be able to hold him for much longer. “I’m sorry, I’m… out of breath I’m afraid. Could you-?” He motioned towards the ground.

"Oh!" Fiddleford easily dropped to the ground, naught but a small cloud of dust disturbed by his bandaged feet. "Sorry bout that,” he said with a sheepish grin. "Guessin' I overworked you a bit there."

"AAAAAH!" Mabel suddenly shouted from behind him. The two men turned, seeing her face invigorated with nothing but sheer joy. She bounced on her heels, almost looking as if she were vibrating. "Sorry, I just had to let it out!!"

Ford raised a brow at Mabel’s excitement, and then turned back to Fidds. “Fiddleford, I, uh…” he began, pulling at the neck of his sweater. “I’d like you to come back with us. Where it’s warm. I can get you a blanket to sleep under, some food. Please, I- I don’t like the thought of you being out here all alone in the cold.”

 "I… I don't think that's a good idea," he said, notes of anxiety shadowing his tone. His fingers deftly twirled through the hair at the end of his beard.

“Please come?” Ford nearly begged, grabbing his hands. “I want you with me. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

"I-I'll dirty up the shack, Ford! L-Look at me! I don't belong in a nice home."

“Fiddleford,” he said, placing a gentle hand against the side of his face. “I don’t care about dirt or grime, or anything of that sort. Don’t you remember when we were younger? You had to _force_ me to scrub the mud out of the kitchen,” he laughed. “Please, let us get you warmed up. At least for tonight?”

Mabel strode forward and held up her blanket as an offering for Fiddleford. The old man glanced hesitantly between her and Ford.

"O-okay."

Ford grinned. “Thank you,” he whispered in his ear, and began leading him towards his brother’s car.

Mabel skipped along behind them, humming happily. She crawled into the backseat to let them have the front, and tossed the blanket over for Fiddleford to use. In no time, Ford started the vehicle and drove them home, his driving a small deal less disastrous this time. The car ride was mostly silent. Mabel had drifted into slumber after all the excitement, and Fiddleford was warming himself up under the blanket. Ford glanced at his friend periodically to make sure he was faring all right, at the risk of his driving. A small smile curved across his lips. This endeavor couldn't have gone better if he'd tried. Fiddleford remembered him. He forgave him, even when he didn't deserve it. And he agreed to return home with him. He still had no guarantee Stanley wouldn't become upset with him about the surprise of bringing Fiddleford back, but... to hell with worrying about that.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked quietly, paying heed to Mabel sleeping in the backseat.

Fiddleford nodded and curled up against the seat. "You have no idea. It's so cold at my shed, and the heater stopped workin'. This feels like a dream right now."

Ford's smile faded at this sentiment, a reminder of how dire his conditions were before. "Well... I'm glad for that."

"Y'know, you can't take all the blame for what happened. I didn't listen to you and used that damn gun on myself."

"And I pushed you too far, too fast. If I hadn't gotten us tangled up with that gremloblin, you’d never-"

"But _even so,_ I relied on it too much," Fiddleford interjected, his voice oddly serious. "Ford, I have a lot of regrets and lettin' that gun control my life is one of them. I not only lost myself, but my home, my family, my mind, and you."

Ford fixed his gaze vacantly on the road, following its curvature through the bends. In that moment he could nearly feel himself growing older, his face growing sallow and thin. “I suppose we both did some pretty stupid things, then,” he sighed eventually.

"We did. But... at least we finally learned our lessons?" he replied with a soft chuckle.

The rest of the ride was silent until they reached the shack. "Should we wake her?" Fiddleford asked, gesturing at the sleeping Mabel in the backseat.

"Honestly, I haven't the heart to wake her at this time in the morning,” he admitted. “I'll carry her upstairs." He took the keys out of the ignition and stepped out of the car, into the cool four AM air.

 

* * *

 

The moment Fiddleford hopped out of the car his body was once again wracked by shivers. While he’d grown acclimated to the feeling of bitter cold sinking in his bones before, it seemed the car trip with the heaters on full blast served to remind his body that surviving in cold like this wasn’t its ideal state. He wrapped the cozy blanket even tighter around his shoulders and watched as Ford gently picked up Mabel. As if by unconscious instinct, the girl clung onto the man like a possum hanging on a branch. The sight made him giggle; it was too precious.

Ford turned at the sound of his laughter, deep wrinkles framing his cheeks as he smiled and adjusted his hold on his the girl. Deftly, with one hand, the man somehow managed to open the front door of the Shack. He pulled it open with his foot. "Come on in!" he invited, motioning with his head for him to follow.

Fiddleford hesitantly entered, drinking in the sight of the place... the dusty mirror resting against the far wall, the staircase to the second floor, the comfortably worn looking couch in the next room. It was all hauntingly familiar to him, and while logically he _knew_ that was because he used to live here in the months he worked alongside Ford, his memory of it felt dreamlike, impermanent, as if he were observing it through the film of a bubble. After Stan took charge he was never allowed in the main house, though that never stopped him from wandering in on his less lucid days. He lingered at Ford’s side, not wanting to get separated in case Stan woke up.

"I'm going to carry Mabel back to her room," Ford said in a whisper. "There's a couch in the parlor you can rest on for the time being, if you want."

Suddenly the two heard a rustling coming from Stan's bedroom. Ford freezes. "Damnit Stanley, not now,” he hissed.

"Welp! I'm gonna get kicked out!" Fiddleford said, accepting his fate with a unhinged nervous smile.

"No you won't, this is legally my house. I wouldn’t let him do that.”

Stan entered the room, tiredly rubbing his eyes. His glasses were nowhere to been seen. He glanced up at the trio, at Ford holding Mabel and that crazy hillbilly nearly hiding behind him, and blinked. "Huh," he grumbled tiredly. "Came out all this way thinkin' I'd heard a raccoon invadin' the house. Don't know if this is better or worse."

"Hmph!" Fiddleford huffed. "I'll have ya know I was invited!"

“Eugh, I have ta’ deal with _this_ again?”

"Stanley, please," Ford said firmly, trying to keep his voice down for Mabel's sake. "Don't make a big deal of this. Fiddleford's an old friend of mine, and I refuse to let him sleep in the cold. Be courteous for once, would you?"

"I-It's alright Ford. Everyone reacts that way whenever I'm around."

"No, it's _not_ okay," Ford said in desperation, a little louder than he probably intended. "I don't care that you've been homeless the past thirty years, because so have I! You're a good man- heck, you're a genius. You deserve respect." His gaze passed from Fidds to Stan, expression growing dark. "Stan. As the legal owner of this house, let me make myself explicitly clear: my friend is staying here tonight. He may be staying longer, I don't yet know. You will not harass him in any way. And if you have any problem with this, well... You're always free to leave _before_ summer ends. Capiche?"

Stan and Ford glared at each other for a good solid chunk of time. Eventually however, Stan shrank from the confrontation.

"Fine," he spat, "but you're not getting rid of me that easily. I'm not leaving before those kids are home and safe." With that, he stormed off back to his room.

Fiddleford looked up at Ford in shock. Part of him felt flattered with his compliments and defense, but the way he threatened to kick Stanley out didn't sit right with him. "Stanford! Y-You ain't really gonna kick him out cause o' me right?!"

He tensed. “I… I don’t desire to, but if the situation escalates I will. Fiddleford, I don’t want him to hurt you.”

"And I don't want you two to hurt each other cause of me!" he replied, jabbing a finger at his chest. He knew the story of what happened between them. How Stanley was kicked out by their parents when they were teenagers... How his family pushed him away, just like his own family had done to _him_.

Ford sighed. “All right. I suppose my words were a little harsh. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll talk to him later this morning and… apologize. Explain the situation a little more. But at this time, I think we better all be getting to bed.”

Fiddleford sighed and nodded. It was later er.. early... depending on who you asked, and everyone was on edge and needing rest.

Mabel’s eyes blinked open, and she gripped Ford’s sweater in worry. “Grunkle Ford, why was everyone yelling?” she murmured tiredly.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you, my dear," Ford whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Can you put yourself in bed or would you like me to carry you up?"

"Carry me, please?"

Ford hummed in the positive and then turned to Fiddleford. “I’ll be right back downstairs. Like I said earlier, there’s blankets and a couch for you in the parlor- you remember where the parlor is, yes?”

Fiddleford nodded then scurried around the corner on all fours, hoping to avoid bumping into anyone else until after getting some sleep.

 

* * *

 

Ford carried Mabel upstairs and tucked her in, being careful not to wake her brother up. After a moment’s hesitation, he kissed her forehead goodnight. Then, he walked downstairs and peeked into the parlor to check on Fiddleford. He’d wrapped himself in three blankets, and had already fallen fast asleep. A small smile crossed his face at the knowledge that his friend was indoors, cozy, and safe. Without a sound, he snuck down to the basement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue dramatic irony that Ford was worried Stan would overreact about Fiddleford, when in fact it was FORD doing all the overreacting. These boys have some issues to sort out in the future. More at eleven.


	4. Good Gravy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Fiddleford bond over morning cooking, Dipper is in awe of Fidds' homemade gravy, and Mabel finds a good scrapbook-ortunity. Also, Ford can't deny it any longer- he definitely still has a crush.

 

Fiddleford crept across the hardwood floor at a sloth’s tempo, gently testing the corners of each board for extreme creaks and whines before pressing his full weight upon them. The little alarm clock resting on the dresser in the parlor Stanford let him sleep in read eight o’ four when he left. Since he didn’t know how late or early anyone in this here Shack slept in normally, he figured he should stay as quiet as he could. The last thing he wanted to do was give any of the fellas living here an unexpected spook.

He yawned deeply, quickly slamming his hands over his mouth when he realized how unintentionally loud he was being. Dagnabbit, he wanted his surprise breakfast to be a _surprise_ to the family, not announced to the whole world before he could cook it! Muttering to himself, he hurried his pace, luckily managing to avoid the brunt of the squeaky boards as he entered the kitchen. He then set about rummaging through the shelves and drawers to see if they had all the right ingredients for omelets, or maybe biscuits and gravy. Definitely biscuits and gravy, he decided, since Stan didn’t seem to have any veggies he could toss in an omelet.

Hopefully he could remember his ma’s recipe in full this time...

Fidds heard heavy footsteps approaching, and a brash yawn. He turned and froze like a spooked deer intercepted by headlights on the backroads, standing on a chair in mid-reach for a baking sheet on the top of the shelf. Stanley stood in the doorway of the kitchen in his underwear and a tank top.

“Oh,” he said flatly, drinking in the scene before him. “Good mornin’, possum breath. Need help cooking anything?”

“M-mornin’, Stanley,” he said, and nervously tugged at his beard. He climbed down from the counter. Honestly, he still wasn’t sure how to act around Ford’s brother, considering how stand-offish he’d acted towards him in the past. “I- I’m fine, I just wanted to surprise y’all with some grub to thank you for lettin’ me stay here!”

“Well, no need to thank me,” Stan mumbled almost imperceptibly. “It’s Ford’s house, after all. But... eh, you’re welcome I guess.”

Fiddleford could practically sense the cool metallic intensity of that man’s eyes boring through the back of his head as he continued searching about the kitchen, trawling for ingredients. He scratched at his arm. Constant surveillance made him feel kinda itchy.

“Uh, hey? If you’re making biscuits, then how ‘bout I make some bacon?” Stan spoke up then.

He grinned wide, flashing what teeth he had left. “Sure! Can’t have biscuits and gravy without ‘em! Now let's see, after flour I need... uh-" His brows sank, growing pensive as he desperately tried to sort through recently recalled memory. "Come on, Fiddleford, you should know this..."

Wordlessly, Stan pulled the correct ingredients off the shelves and placed them on the counter for him. He then got out a frying pan for himself, for bacon duty.

"Oh, thank ya’," he said, walking over to the counter to observe the ingredients. "Although-" He placed his hand on his mouth and leered at the food Stan set up for him. "There's somethin' missin', I just _know_ it! Mcgucket, Mcgucket... The Mcgucket Family Secret Gravy Recipe!" He opened the fridge, and found a half used can of brown meat. "I can't believe I almost forgot this! My ma would have my hide if I messed up her gravy!"

“You’re rememberin’ more and more every day, aren’tcha?” Stan asked suddenly, glancing towards him as he watched the bacon beginning to sizzle. “After all that mind wiping cult stuff got taken down…”

Fiddleford nodded amicably, amid measuring flour and baking powder into his bowl. "Some days I get a ton o' them back and other days it's very slow." He looked up at the other man, smiling sincerely. "It's tricky piecin' a lot of them back, especially the ones about your brother. But I'm just happy I finally remember who I am!”

"That's, uh... that's real great," he said with a weak laugh, attention drifting away to the bacon again.

His smile faltered. Part of him wondered what was going on in Stanley’s mind right now, but the other part of him feared gathering the nerve to ask. It probably ain’t his business anyways.

Within a few minutes, he’d mixed everything together and formed the biscuits between his hands on the baking sheet. As he waited for the oven to heat up, he began to hum an old silly song he recalled his pa used to sing while strummin’ on the guitar... _Oh, grandma’s in the cellar, and boy don’t you smell her cookin’ biscuits on that darn ol’ dirty stove? In her eye there’s a matter that keeps drippin’ in the batter, and she whistles as a- *SNIFF*- runs down her nose!_ His ma despised it, if he remembered correctly. He carefully edged the sheet into the oven, and pretty soon the sweet aroma of his cooking began to waft throughout the shack.

"Ya know, I used ta’ make this all the time for your brother,” he mentioned offhand.

"Is that so?" Stan said, raising a brow. "Well, good on ya'. Some days I think Ford would've starved to death if there weren’t someone there ta' feed him. I swear, it’s like he’s too distracted to eat half the time."

"You’re tellin’ me!" Fiddleford laughed. "I literally had to wrangle him into a chair and tie him down to get him to eat whenever finals came around!"

The other man’s face lit up, and he let out a loud bark of laughter- genuine, this time. "Yeah, that sounds like 'im, that nerd," he said, laying the cooked bacon on a plate. "Hey... it, uh- sounds like your memory's returning better then you thought. You said you had trouble remembering stuff about Ford, but... that's two memories right after another."

Fiddleford's amused chuckling died down as he stopped to think for a moment. "You’re right,” he murmured, eyes widening into saucers. He stared up at Stanley with probably the calmest expression he's ever given him. "Thank ya’!"

"For _what?_ You're the one remembering everything, all I did was talk to ya'..."

"Well, talking to ya’ really helped." Fiddleford replied, still smiling. "It's hard rememberin’ on your own."

At that moment, the two heard footsteps approaching from around the corner, and muffled voices. It sounded like Ford and Dipper, cheerily talking about some supernatural creature they’d both encountered in the woods. Stan froze at the sound, and Fidds was sure that man was mentally hyperfixating on every last detail of his last not-so-friendly interaction with his brother the night before.

Ford poked his head into the kitchen first, drinking in the sight of the home cooking occurring. He inhaled deeply, likely having followed his nose to the kitchen. "Good morning, Fiddleford. Stanley." _Can I talk with you outside?_ he mouthed at his brother.

Stan nodded nervously, ducking out of the kitchen with him.

"Mornin', Dipper!" Fiddleford said.

"Morning, McGucket." Dipper shuffled toward the breakfast table. “I, uh- I see you're making breakfast?”

"Yep, biscuits and gravy!" Fiddleford scooped up a heaping spoonful and offered it to Dipper. "Wanna taste? I promise it’ll be the best dang gravy you’ve ever tasted!" he said with a wink.

Dipper seemed hesitant, which he didn’t blame him for— the kid saw him cooking roadkill on a spit a few days ago, after all!— but it seemed the smell was too alluring. Walking over, he took the offered sample and gave it a shot. The moment his lips closed around the spoon, his eyes widened, and he promptly licked the utensil clean. Fidds beamed.

"Heh heh, guess that means I made it right!"

The boy stayed at the counter next to him after that, watching him finish cooking the gravy. "So Mr. McGucket, you and Great Uncle Ford were roommates in college, right?"

"Yes, siree we were!" Fiddleford replied.

"What was he like?"

Fiddleford paused from his cooking, considering the question seriously. "Honestly? I love that man, but he was an absolute pain in the tush to bunk with!"   

* * *

 

Stanley tensed as he walked into the hall with his brother, already getting flashbacks of the first argument they had here. As with every other interaction with Ford lately, nothing good could come out of this. He crossed his arms pensively. "Whatdy'a want?"

Ford sighed, pressing fingers to his temple. He seemed to almost deflate in his presence, oddly enough. "Stanley? Let me be frank with you."

Nevertheless, _Uh-oh_ was all that could run through Stan's mind.

"I was-" Ford continued, forcing himself to look Stan in the eye. "I might have acted a little harsh towards you last night, and..."

"You _think??"_ Stan burst out suddenly, residual anger from last night's encounter boiling over. "You were 'bout ta’ kick me out before the summer ended! Before my time, before I was ready, and _exactly_ like what Dad did all those years ago!"

Ford stiffened at the comparison to their father, and continued. "I'm aware of that. Or at least, I was helped to become aware of that, and..." Another weary sigh. Where was he going with this? "There's no reason for me to treat you this way,” he said finally. “I'm- I'm not kicking you out. Obviously, you're free to leave if you ever wish to, but it would be unfair of me to uproot you from this place."

Stan stopped, and blinked. Dumbfounded. Did he just-? Did those words seriously come out of Ford's mouth? It wasn’t exactly an apology, but...

"So you're... you're letting me stay?" he said, mouth agape. "I don't have to leave after the summer?"

"No, you don't have to leave," Ford confirmed, a gentle smile crossing his face. "This has been your home for far longer than it's been mine, after all. I'd still like to talk about your Mystery Shack at a later date, and determine what compromises if any we could come to on that front, , but-"

Without any warning, Stan rushed forward and wrapped his arms tightly around his brother. Ford nearly stumbled back in surprise, at first not sure how to respond to this at all. But eventually, his hands stopped awkwardly floating midair and settled on Stan's back, tightly returning his embrace. They might still have a lot more to hash out- issues from their past to unpack- but for the moment they were simply happy to share in the kind of sibling affection neither had experienced in over forty years. 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Fiddleford continued to share embarrassing stories about his college years with Stanford, Dipper seeming wholly engrossed with each tale.

"Wow, so you two really didn't get expelled for setting the lab on fire?" he asked.

"Nope!" Fiddleford replied as he started to set the food on the table. "And luckily, too, the last thing we needed was to get kicked out of school. But boy howdy, were they not easy on us with the community service!"

“Are you giving me up, Fiddleford?” Ford asked suddenly, peaking around the corner of the doorway with a wry smile on his lips.

Fiddleford let out a surprised yelp. "H-howdy, Ford!" he said, grinning sheepishly. "Just sharin' some of our tamer days."

"Really? _That's_ tame?" Dipper asked.

"My boy, setting a university laboratory on fire is child's play. Just wait until you hear about the time we almost accidentally released an alien superbug into all of greater Gravity Falls!" He walked over to his old friend, grinning mercilessly. "Fiddleford and I had all sorts of misadventures, back in the day..."

Fiddleford leaned his cheek against his arm, giggling at the memory. "Most of them were ‘coz _someone_ liked to poke his nose into other critters’ business," he said, playfully nudging him in the stomach. "Yer’ just lucky we were able to synthesize that antidote, or else the town wouldn't be here anymore!"

Ford could feel the blood rushing to the capillaries near the surface of his face at the sudden physical affection, and while it left him with a sort of light, jittery sensation in his core he couldn’t necessarily attach a bad connotation to, he also felt a tinge of embarrassment that Dipper was there to see his reaction. He hadn’t gotten the chance to properly explore and catalogue his increasingly muddled thoughts on the matter yet. He’d far prefer to do that in private than in front of family, yes...

"Yeah, I fear we nearly destroyed the town on a number of occasions in those days," he replied to Fidds.

"Don't stop fearing yet," Stan butt in suddenly, returning to the kitchen. "Now that you're back in this dimension again, you've got plenty more years of potential destruction to cause!"

Ford frowned, picking at the stray threads on his jacket. Something about the way Stan phrased this brought the rift to mind, the rift he'd securely enclosed just this morning.

Mabel sleepily shuffled behind Stan, clutching onto a stuffed unicorn. "Mornin'," she yawned before climbing into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Mornin', pumpkin," Stan said, and gave her hair a nice big ruffle. He turned to the rest of the group, all loitering in the kitchen and surrounded by food. "Hey, we gonna eat, or what? This all smells delicious! Whoever cooked it must be a culinary genius... especially the fella who cooked that bacon!" He laughed boisterously at his own not-that-funny joke, and Ford promptly rolled his eyes.

"Do you need help taking any of these plates to the table, Fiddleford?" he asked, grateful for the change of topic from before.

"If y’all don't mind givin' me a hand. I'm hoping y’all like the food! Been a while since I've properly cooked anything."

"Tasted amazing to me!" Dipper smiled while helping a sleepy Mabel up to migrate.

Stan and Ford each grabbed a dish and carried them to the table in the living room. Ford carefully placed his at the center, and promptly returned to the kitchen to find some plates. Stan on the other hand, sat directly down, strategically positioning himself in the chair right in front of the bacon. "Hey, uh, kids," he began. "Just so ya' know, the Shack won't be open today. Maybe not for the next few days, who knows. But anyways, until this pigsty is fixed up, you two little gremlins are off the hook, okay? Go play with your friends, or in the woods, or whatever it is ya' do when I'm not lookin'."

"Really?" Mabel asked with a sleepy smile as she climbed into the seat beside him.

"Yeah, what's the catch?" Dipper asked, skeptical of his intentions as always.

Stan frowned deeply, more for show and dramatics than any true expression of disgruntlement. “The catch is, do it before I take advantage of Gravity Falls’ lax child labor laws and put you two to work on somethin’ else! Now, who wants bacon?”

“I’d like a strip or two,” Ford said eagerly, just returning to the table with plates and silverware for the five of them. He set the plates down and let the kids pass them out. “I don’t think I’ve eaten bacon for over thirty years. There’s not anything quite like it, out there in the midst of the multiverse...”

"I'll have a slice!" Dipper replied.

"Me too!" Mabel added.

Fiddleford walked in and set his gravy pot on the table. "It's been a long time since I've seen any bacon smellin’ this good,” he commented as he took his seat. "I wanna thank you again for helping me out with the cookin', Stanley."

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome, or whatever,” he said, brushing off his thanks with a flourish of his hand. Ford shot him one of _those_ looks, but said nothing. Stan dished out the bacon to everyone, grabbing four slices for himself, and soon everyone began digging in.

Fiddleford noisily gobbled down his share of biscuits. To him, this was the most luxurious meal he'd eaten in months. After polishing off his first, he realized he’d spilled crumbs all over his beard, but he was so caught up in enjoying his food that he couldn’t bring himself to truly care. Meanwhile, Dipper practically drowned his poor biscuits in the gravy, and with food in her stomach Mabel was finally beginning to wake up.

Stanley worked away at his own plate quietly for a moment, too hungry to provide much in the way of conversation. As he ate, he glanced from Dipper, to Mabel… to Fiddleford, and sitting next to him— after all these years— his brother.

 “Heh,” he muttered suddenly. “Y’know, now that I think of it, it’s funny…”

The four of them paused, Fiddleford mid-chew, when Stan spoke up.

"What is, Grunkle Stan?" Mabel asked.

 “This… well, it’s dumb, but once I got ta’ thinkin’ about it, this is the first real meal I’ve shared with Ford in over forty years,” Stan said breathlessly, staring off into the distance, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes.

Ford dropped his fork against his plate, brows furrowing as he counted the years, calculated and double checked his claim. “You- my word, you’re right,” he said, eyes widening as he contemplated the truth behind this statement. Even yesterday— his first evening back— they hadn’t crossed paths much, since he’d dedicated nearly all of that time to constructing a containment field for the rift in the basement.

Mabel let out a loud and dramatic gasp at Stan's realization. "And it's the first time Grunkle Ford has eaten with me and Dipper _period,_ meaning-" She shot up from her seat, all the vim and vigor Ford remembered from early this morning returning in a flash. "Be right back!" With no explanation, she rushed out of the living room, excitedly stomping up the stairs. Before anyone could truly comment on her outburst she returned with her polaroid camera.

"SCRAPBOOK-ORTUNITY!" she announced, holding the camera with lens facing her, the entire family in the frame behind her. When the camera flashed Stan was in the middle of picking his nose, and Ford was eighty percent certain he blinked. The greyed scientist began to laugh heartily at Mabel's happy antics.

“You remind me of my Ma,” he said through laughter. “She was always taking pictures of Stanley and I, and mostly when we weren’t prepared for them.” He took another bite of his biscuit. A stray bit of gravy dribbled from his lip.

Mabel giggled and shook the polaroid when it came out of the camera. "I never miss a scrapbook-ortunity!"

“Mabel,” Dipper whined, “I was chewing when you took that picture!”

“It’s candid photography, that’s _kinda_ the point, duh!”

Fiddleford gave his finger a lick, and reached towards Ford’s face. "Ford, ya’ got a little somethin' on yer chin..."

Ford blushed a deep scarlet as Fiddleford dabbed the gravy off his chin and the corner of his lips, his eyes blowing wide. He suddenly felt clammy, almost itchy as he felt the rest of the room stare at him… He knew for a fact they all saw the way his ears and cheeks flushed like some lovesick fool at Fidds’ touch, and his heart pounded at the thought of having to explain this to his own family when he hadn’t even taken time to fully consider these feelings himself. Not for the first time, he felt achingly like an alien— perhaps even an imposter— in his home, that is, if he could even claim it as such.

Mabel slammed her hands over her mouth and excitedly wiggled in her seat. She began to repeatedly nudge her brother's side, much to his annoyance.

When Fiddleford finished, he gave Ford a shy smile and leaned back in his chair. "Sorry, old habit from the old days," he said, blushing as well.

“Sheesh, if you two want to leave the room for a sec or somethin,’” Stan said snarkily, “then don’t let me stop ya’.”

Ford roughly set his cup down on the table. ”Stanley. That’s enough,” he hissed. “We will not be discussing this at the breakfast table.”

The kids flinched from Ford's sudden outburst.

“Wow, okay, okay,” Stan muttered, recoiling a little. “Hit a nerve there...”

"Stanford, there's no reason to get so upset, he was only teasin'." Fiddleford said, trying to diffuse the tension.

“I-I…”

Ford looked back and forth, from the kids— who were staring at him with slight apprehension— to Stan— who looked much like a kicked puppy— and finally to Fidds. Fiddleford. The man he _knew_ deep down he’d never gotten over, never stopped loving, not even after thirty plus years, and the man who was currently gazing at him with such a gentleness in his eyes even despite his rough outburst. His palms sweat as he clasped them together, nervously threading his fingers between each other. Before his mind could catch up with his body, he found himself bolting through the door between the house and the gift shop.

Stan stared at the chair he left empty for a moment, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. He was only teasing. Surely Ford didn’t think he would judge him if he did have an old crush on Fiddleford, if his prediction was in fact accurate? “You, uh,” he began lamely, glancing towards Fiddleford. “You might wanna go after him before he locks himself away in the basement for the rest of the day.”

"Yeah, uh..." Fiddleford stood up. "E-Excuse me fellas."


	5. I Missed You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ford and Fiddleford have a much needed emotional intervention.

“Stanford! Stanford, get back here!” Fiddleford said, almost colliding headfirst into the doorframe as he scampered across the wood paneling on all fours. He had to catch up with him, he _had_ to, otherwise that stubborn man would go and disappear downstairs for heaven knows how long, and shut everyone out. What in tarnation got him acting like this anyways? Sure, he recognized from his recently regained memories that the Stanford he knew in youth wasn’t all too proficient at handling emotions, but this outburst seemed rather abrupt.

He caught up just in time, Ford’s fingers still fumbling on the vending machine keypad. The man’s breathing was erratic, out of sync. He could only catch his wide-eyed gaze for a fraction of a second before Ford hastily glanced away, dropping his head against the glass with a subtle groan.

“Please, Fiddleford, go enjoy your breakfast. Don’t let me ruin your morning.”

“No, if you’re goin’ down to the basement, then you’re takin’ me with you!” he said, hugging his arm to keep him from punching in the code and escaping. “We- we need ta’ talk.”

“I can’t—“

“An’ why not?”

“I- I’m not _ready_ to talk about any of this,” Ford said in a hushed whisper, voice nearly cracking as he worked his lips around the syllables. He ground his teeth together, still refusing to meet his eyes.

Fiddleford frowned deeply, loosening his grip on his arm. “What’s goin’ on? You’re actin’ jumpier than I remember you used to,” he said, pausing a moment to tug at either side of his beard, threading his fingertips through the coarse hair. “Unless, maybe I ain’t remembering right. That happens a lot, too.”

“No, no, it’s not you,” Ford muttered, staring intently at the keypad. He sighed deeply, all his apparent stress and anxiety and muddled thoughts nearly becoming manifest in the dense air he exhaled. “I don’t think it’s a wise idea for you to come down with me. You don’t have many good memories of this place, and I- I don’t want to hurt you. Not again, not like I did repeatedly all those years ago...”

“No! I ain’t lettin’ you avoid the dangum issue!” he exclaimed. “I got an idea of what’s down _there_ , but what I also know is, we’re still up here. And what’s up _here_ is more important.”

Ford’s eyes slid shut at this, and Fiddleford felt the muscles in his arm he still hugged relax. It was a subtle shift, but noticeable all the same.

“Okay,” he said, relenting. “But if we’re going to talk, can we at least sit in the elevator? We don’t have to ride to the basement, but... I would prefer not to have this conversation within earshot of the kids. Or Stanley, for that matter,” he added.

“Alrighty, we can talk in the elevator if it’s easier for ya’.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, and finished punching in the code.

Once the door swung ajar, the two traversed down the stairs side by side, in patient silence. The air grew thicker as they descended, more metallic-tasting. A whole array of newfound memories pressed at his mind at the familiar sensory detail, begging for attention, but Fiddleford filed them away for now. He’d take inventory of these at a more suitable time. Right now, Ford’s emotional wellbeing was his primary concern.

He gasped sharply, nearly tripping on the edge of one of the craggy wooden steps. Before his other foot could slip out from underneath his knobby knees, Ford caught his arm, steadying him for the last few steps. On the left wall, he noticed dimly glowing remains of a six-fingered handprint. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on why, but something about this handprint felt off to him. As he mused about this, Ford unlocked the elevator, pulled the gate open, and gestured for him to follow him inside. Above all else the man seemed tense, from the stiffness of his gait to the tight incline of his brow. He let out a soft whimper, hurt at having to see his friend so worked up over... well, worked up over _something_. He still had no inkling as to what.

Ford on the other hand, knew damn well what he was worked up over. He sat down in the corner of the elevator, stretching his legs out. Fiddleford joined him at his side, nearly leaning into his shoulder. The warm, familiar contact was welcomed, but had the fun side effect of making his stomach flutter with nerves, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in length in so long that he almost wondered if he might be sick.

“All right,” Fiddleford asked gently, “what’s got you so riled up?”

The longer he stared at the elevator’s wall, the less certain he became that he _wouldn’t_ eventually burn a scorch mark into the double plated metal. Fidds' gentle touch burned into his awareness. His heart pounded. Now that he had the floor his tongue felt dry and lame, the once organized thoughts in his mind jumbled by his anxieties into an incomprehensible mess. How was he supposed to gently lead the conversation into anything even remotely resembling emotional honesty?

"I- I suppose it's that... well," he began slowly, desperately trying to piece together his thoughts. "Ever since I've returned home, reminders of yo- o-of what I’ve left behind in my past... have assaulted me without end. Everything about this world seems hopelessly different, and yet... everything I am, all that I think and- and feel... has not changed one bit. It’s _frustrating,"_ he said.

Fiddleford sighed and nuzzled into his arm. "Well, you ‘ave been gone for 30 years. I imagine it ain't easy adjustin'. 'Specially since this 'ol shack still has the same feel from back then."

"Except it doesn't," Ford said, spreading out his hands. "Not to me. I feel more like I'm a stranger in my own house. Hell, I feel like a stranger in the whole of this dimension. Sometimes I fear I don't belong here, Fiddleford, that this isn't the same place I left. That this isn’t my family, not really. That I stole the rightful home of some other Ford.”

"Stanford..." His friend placed his hands on his shoulders, lithe fingers gripping at the grooves of his cable knit sweater.  "Stanford, what are you talkin' about?! You _are_ my Ford."

He froze, meeting Fidds' gaze. His throat felt tight as he swallowed. Before he could hide his face away in shame, his eyes grew damp. "I'm afraid there's no way for me to know for sure," he said, words strained. “And if I don’t belong here, t-then—“

"Well what about your memories?" he suggested, voice shaking. His leg bounced against Ford’s side. "A-Ain't it too much of a coincidence if there’s two timelines where exactly everything lined up? We can do a check to see if everythin' syncs but I'm tellin' ya—" He leaned in close. "You’re _my_ Ford," he said.

At hearing these words, some invisible barrier broke. Tears slipped over the ridge of his eyelids, cascading over his cheeks and through his stubble. Ford buried his face in his arms as he breathlessly wept, half of him utterly ashamed for doing so. 

The sight of Ford crying got Fiddleford going. He sniffled. "I can feel it," he said, gently wrapping his arms around him. "You belong here. You belong here, suga'."

Ford's heart jolted at the achingly familiar term Fiddleford just dropped. Did he hear that correctly? He looked up at him through bleary eyes and fogged up lenses, not desiring to imagine what a sad, disheveled mess he must look like to him right now. "W-what did you just say?" he whispered, a flicker of hope stirring in his soul, barely even hearing his own words himself.

"I- I—" His face flushed, and he started fumbling with his beard. All the sudden old memories came flooding in, pressing themselves against his awareness. They were together once, a long time ago— a couple!—  and if the nervous thrum of his chest were to be taken as evidence, those feelings had never left. No wonder he was so drawn to Stan all those years, his face was a reminder of... "I uh- I called ya suga'!"

"Fiddleford, I have a question... an important one," Ford said, blinking through tears. "And if I'm wrong, you can forget I ever mentioned it, and we can move on, b-but... I need to know. Were we—" He paused, nerves pent up, hands clammy, _just say it, for goodness’ sake! —_ "did we ever date in this dimension? When we were younger?"

"Y-Yes...”

Ford shifted in surprise as his friend buried his face into his sweater, but wrapped his arms around him tightly, letting out a gasp of relief. They dated. They were a couple once. This could still be his world. "Good," he whispered in reply, voice hitching.

Fiddleford peaked up, still meek. "Good?"

"I need to tell you something about what happened a few minutes ago," Ford said, words falling out of his mouth like a waterfall, knowing that if he didn't force himself to say these things he'd never allow himself to process it. "I was too harsh on Stan for what he said about us because I- well, because I was terrified. Terrified of rejection from them, from you, of... of pushing you away all over again."

"Welll..." Fiddleford gulped and looked up, pressing his chin against his arm. "What if told ya’ you needn't worry about that? W-What if I told ya’ I- that I wouldn't reject you?"

"And w-what if _I_ told you that... that I never stopped having feelings for you?"

"What if I told ya’ they never left me neither?”

At that, Ford's mind and body and soul relaxed, and he allowed his heartbeat to fall into a slower, gentler rhythm, one that overlapped and complemented Fidds' own. He held the man all the closer at the revelation of their mutual feelings, and clamped his eyes shut. He felt halfway to crying again, except this time in happiness. Fiddleford understood. He... he felt the same way. It was almost all too much for him to process, and he marveled at just how lucky he was.

Fiddleford planted a small kiss on Ford's cheek, the hair of his beard tickling his jaw. Ford hummed a note of happiness at the sudden act of affection, and then gently left a reciprocal kiss on the top of his head. A shy kiss, but loving all the same. He continued to hold him close, shifting so his head was next to his heart.

"I've missed you, suga'."

Ford broke into a small smile. "I've missed you too, so, _so_ much. How has so much time passed between us?" he wondered out loud, holding him even closer, perhaps subconsciously fearing that time might yet take him away. "But that's... that's okay. We have time. We still have time," he repeated, gently.

"Guessin' this all means we're together again?" Fiddleford said with an embarrassed chuckle, and nuzzled himself against his side.

"Mmm," Ford hummed in agreement. "I'd quite like that."

 

_________

  

“I had no way of knowing he’d take it so hard, or so literally,” Stan said miserably, slumped in his chair with his head leaning against his hand. “I was just tryin’ to mess with him, that’s all. I mean, surely you saw it too? He went as red as a tomato, and I’ve never seen him react like that before to anything!”

“It’s not your fault,” Mabel reassured, hanging off his free arm. “I don’t think he Grunkle Ford was really mad at you. He’s just been dealing with a lot of stuff.”

“Or maybe you just hit a nerve,” Dipper added, mindlessly stirring the gravy around on his plate with his fork.

“Dipper!” his sister scolded with a deep frown.

“What? Sometimes his teasing can do that!”

“No, no, the kid’s right,” Stan shrugged, plastering a weak smile on his face. “I have an abrasive personality! I’ve pretty much accepted that by this point.” He sighed, glancing at the soggy biscuit he still hadn’t finished eating. “I just hope I didn’t push his buttons too hard. I mean, I feel like I’m already walking on eggshells around him as it is.”

Mabel hugged her grunkle as tightly as she possibly could. “I’m sure he isn’t that mad,” she reasoned, more to herself than to Stan. “Maybe if you say you’re sorry then you won’t have to worry about... about having to leave when we’re gone.”

“Thankfully, after I spoke with him about it this morning I don’t think I gotta worry about that, sweetie,” he said, ruffling her hair, “but I _do_ think I need to be careful talkin’ to him from now on. I don’t know what all he’s been through, after all. Would hate to bring up bad memories.”

He leaned back in his chair, surveying his surroundings. The clock read 10:27. His brother and Fiddleford’s seats were still empty, and had been for approximately twenty minutes.

“D’ya think they’re doin’ okay?” he said. “It’s sure been a while.”

“Maybe they got caught doing science-y stuff?” Mabel suggested.

“Yeah, I mean, they have over thirty years of catching up,” Dipper said, his mind bursting with exciting possibilities. “Who knows what sort of theories or experiments or tech they could be discussing!”

At that moment, Ford tentatively poked his head around the corner of the doorway. It was obvious that the skin around his eyes was blotchy and that he'd been crying, but Stan chose to ignore that fact. "Is there still any bacon left?" he asked hopefully, a weak but genuine smile gracing his lips.

"Uhhh..." he muttered nervously, glancing between the empty bacon plate and the two pieces he'd stolen from Ford's plate when he left. "Sure, have mine."

"Thank you," he nodded gratefully, and entered the room. Fiddleford followed along with him. Notably, Stan noticed the two were holding hands, their fingers tightly intertwined.

Fiddleford had a noticeable skip in his step as he walked beside Ford. "Hope there's some biscuits left!" he chirped.

Stan pushed the bowl of biscuits towards Fidds’ table setting wordlessly, watching his brother and his friend— _or was it now significant other??—_ interact with the sort of shy affection he often observed in new couples, a stark shift from the nervous wreck Ford was only a few minutes ago.

"Thank ya!" Fiddleford grabbed one from the bowl and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. He caught Ford's gaze and grinned, his cheeks stuffed with food making him look like a chipmunk.

Squeeing, Mabel took a quick shot of the two with her camera, slotting back into her normally cheery demeanor as she quickly put two and two together. The photograph slid out of the front, and she took it between her fingers and shook it as it developed.

"Hey, is everything all right now?" Dipper asked, pretty much the last person to notice the signs.

Ford himself flashed a smile at Dipper. “More than all right, my boy!” he said happily, and then gazed towards Fiddleford lovingly. “I just needed time to… to sort out some baggage. Stanley,” he said suddenly, turning to face him. “I’d like to apologize for my lack of tact, so to speak, a few minutes ago. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Kids, I’m sorry if I alarmed you. I’m quite all right now.”

"Don't worry about it Great-Uncle Ford," Dipper smiled. And as the weird looks Ford and Fiddleford kept exchanging became more and more obvious... "Am I missing something?" he whispered, leaning toward his sister’s ear.

"I'll explain later!" she whispered back.

Stan sat back in his chair, watching Ford and Fidds continue to interact lovingly as they finished their meals. The two literally couldn’t be more obvious without saying anything if they tried. He stood to his feet, crossing his arms. “Welp! It’s gettin’ too mushy-gushy in here. I’m gonna start fixin’ up the Shack. You all can do whatever.”

“Do you need my help with that, Stan?” Ford asked, chewing on his last slice of bacon.

Stan’s brow furrowed for a moment, considering. “Naw. I’ll be fine,” he said. “You should spend today catchin’ up with your friend. You’ll have plenty of chances to mess with me later, anyways.” He pointed a finger at the kids next. “Like I said earlier, you’re off the hook too. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! Ha!” With that, he disappeared out the front door, leaving Ford, Fidds, and the two kids at the breakfast table.

"Oooh, a free day!" Mabel cooed, eyeing the couple across from her. "What're you two gonna do today? Maybe go see a rom-com at the cinema? Or have a _romantic_ picnic on the edge of the lake? Or- or-" She was practically vibrating with anticipation in her seat.

"Er, uh," Fiddleford blushed then looked up at Ford. "What do you wanna do?" he asked, giving him a sheepish grin and scooting closer.

 “Want to take a walk through the woods?” Ford suggested.

"That sounds lovely to me," he nodded. He jumped up from his seat, his hand still intertwined in Ford's. "I can show ya’ some of my favorite banjo playin' spots!"

“Then it’s a date!” Ford said, almost in a giggle- which sounded uncharacteristic for him, from what little Dipper knew about his personality- and got up alongside Fiddleford. “I trust you two kids know your way around town by now and will stay safe without adult supervision?”

“Yeah, we’ll be good!” Dipper said with a thumbs-up. His great uncle and his friend moseyed on out the front door, with their hands still intertwined. The door closed. He turned towards his sister, brow furrowed. “Okay, explain. What was all that about?”

"Isn't it obvious?!" Mabel squealed, shaking off the polaroid and shoving it in Dipper's face. "They're a couple now! They're even going on a date right _this second!_ I can’t believe it! I mean, one minute I'm talking to Grunkle Ford about nightmares! Next we're picking up Old Man Mcgucket to come live with us! And now-" Her voice got louder and louder with each bullet point. "Now they're together and—" she then let out a dramatic gasp— "what. If. They-" She grabbed onto Dipper's shirt and started shaking him in excitement _. "Get married!!"_

 “Whoa, whoa, Mabel,” Dipper laughed, gently nudging her hands off his shirt, “don’t get too excited, they’re just taking a walk, not getting engaged! You’re probably right, though. I mean, that would explain why Great Uncle Ford was blushing like, this entire morning…”

His eyes fell on the candid photo of Ford and Fiddleford Mabel managed to snap. In the photo, the two were holding hands and doing that weird couple-gaze thing he always saw Robbie and Tambry doing. He thought for a moment, balling his fist against his jaw. _“And_ why he got so defensive at first at Grunkle Stan’s teasing…” he reasoned slowly. “And the handholding, and Great Uncle Ford giggling, _and_ all those weird smiles, and _oh my gosh, Mabel, you’re completely right,”_ he said, eyes widening as he fully realized what was going on.

"How many times do I have to tell you," Mabel scoffed, "I’m always right!" She then squealed, picking him off the ground. "Ohmygosh! Does that mean Old Man McGucket is now our _Grunkle_ McGucket?!" she asked, pressing her hands against her cheeks.

Dipper shrugged. “I guess, in a way? Hey, since we’ve got the day to ourselves, d’ya wanna go to the arcade with me?”

"Sure! I wanna try out the new dance game they installed! Soos told me it has Japanese pop songs!" she said in a sing-song voice.

The kids excitedly skipped out the front door, heading to town to enjoy their day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This website hates me for some reason today and won't let me insert my art into the body of the fic, so go visit ( http://a-million-chromatic-dreams.tumblr.com/post/172781696884/im-almost-done-with-brushing-over-chapter-five-of ) if you wanna see some art of a soft smorch.


	6. Universal Constant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fiddleford leads Ford on a romantic walk through the woods, Ford has an unpleasant encounter with a townsfolk, and Tate discovers Ford's return.

Despite the long decades that had passed since he’d last set foot in this dimension, some features of Gravity Falls’ surrounding forest still retained a certain familiarity to Ford’s eyes. The trees and foliage had grown up, engulfing old cobbled paths and casting deep shadows in spots he once recognized as clearings, but even still he could notice details that, for all the area’s progression, hadn’t changed a bit: the deep clawed gouges in the bark of a tree that he always used as a landmark on his hikes, various large stone formations, a gaping pit in the ground he’d accidentally left behind after misfiring a spell he’d picked up from some wood nymphs. The difference now was that unlike thirty years ago— where he was Fiddleford’s guide through the untamed thickets of these magical woods— Fiddleford was now the expert, leading him along the dirt paths and between the thickets with practiced ease.

“I can tell you’ve journeyed through these woods quite a lot in the past few decades,” he said, walking alongside his dear companion.

“Oh, all the time!” Fiddleford chirped, swinging their hands as he led. “It’s the best place to look for nuts and fruits for munchin’! Jus’ gotta be sneaky when grabbin’ berries, ‘cause them pixies can get mighty noisome. Those critters have the nastiest bites.”

“Goodness yes, they do,” he agreed with a lopsided smile. He glanced down at their feet moving parallel, his clad in worn boots and the soles of Fidds’ feet swathed in thick bandages. (He offered him a pair of open toed sandals to wear before they left, but he vehemently refused, labeling them ‘feet prisons.’) “I must say, after all this time you must know your way around this valley more than I ever did.”

“Well, I ended camping out here a lot whenever it’d get dark. Gets pretty tough getting’ back to your shed when ya’ can’t see nothin’. But I reckon I’ve come a long way from wanting robo-legs for hiking, eh?” He nudged at his shoulder.

Ford chuckled, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze. “I honestly forgot about your joking obsession with robotic legs. Didn’t you always beg for me to carry you back home after our field studies?”

“Ya’ kept on takin’ me on day long hikes, Ford! I wasn’t used to walkin’ for that long back then,” he shrugged. “That, and it was a nice excuse to get a free piggyback from ya’!”

“Wait, wait, let me get this straight in my mind,” he began, pausing in the clearing, next to one of the rock formations he recognized from his researcher days. He pressed the fingers of his free hand against his temple. “Did you— in the early 80s, after your divorce— did you still have feelings for me? Even back then?”

Fiddleford turned bright red at his question, and started to softly laugh in embarrassment. “Well, ya’ see, they might’ve still been there even after we broke up.”

"Oh, Fiddleford," Ford sighed sadly, pulling him into a close embrace. "If only I'd known...”

“If only we could’ve been more honest with each other,” Fiddleford said, his voice slightly muffled through the thick fabric of his sweater. “But...” He gazed up at him, smile warm and steady despite it all. “I think we’ve done enough regrettin’, don’t ya’ agree?”

“I do,” he smiled in return. “As difficult as it may be to avoid dwelling on the past, what is most important is to enjoy the time we have to be together now.” Ford gently released him from his embrace, and took both of his hands in his own, folding all of his fingers tightly around his. “I’m so thankful we could find each other again. To be honest, when I returned to this dimension I never thought I’d see you again. It was... heh, it was actually Mabel early this morning who informed me that you still lived in town.”

“In that case, I’ll have ta’ thank her next time I see her,” Fidds said, beaming. He planted a kiss on each of his hands, sudden affection which caused the tips of Ford’s ears to go red. “She helped me reunite with my favorite pillow.”

When Fiddleford began to snicker— a sound which he reveled in hearing— his lips curved up in amusement. “Oh is that what I am to you?”

“ _Well_ , you’re strong, handsome, and very warm,” he said, and nestled into his side once more. “And ‘sides, anyone would be lucky to cuddle with that soft belly ya’ got!”

Ford swore he could feel the blood vessels in his face widening, increasing blood flow to the skin. “Th- thank you?” he stammered, glancing down at the, as Fidds put it, _soft belly_ in question. He’d ran his body to its bitter limits beyond the portal, for sure— and had gained quite a bit of muscle mass for his troubles— but thankfully in the last handful of years he had access to enough food to retain an optimal, healthy amount of body fat as well. Which was nice, as there’d been a hard span of years early on where he was dangerously close to skin and bones.

Fiddleford let out a loud snort as he watched his dear friend’s face turn beet red. “You’re mighty welcome.”

“As flattered as I am though,” he laughed, “the only person lucky enough to cuddle with me as far as I’m concerned is you.”

“Then I suppose I must be the luckiest fella in the whole multiverse.”

“Actually, I might have to contest you with that one,” he replied, gently rubbing circles into the back of Fidds’ hands with his thumbs. “Because I happen to know another ‘fella,’ one who now gets to share his days with the kindest, most brilliant, forgiving, incredible man he knows.” Ford reached forward and tilted up his wide brimmed hat so he could see past the shadows cast on his face. “A man whose eyes are just as bright and beautiful as they were the day I first met you.”

Now it was Fiddleford’s turn to blush, not used to being showered in sincere compliments. Shyly, he glanced away, his knee bouncing. “Nah, I ain’t. I- I ain’t got those eyes no more, Ford.”

Hearing him brush aside his affection like this tore him apart. “You do to _me,”_ he insisted, cupping his cheek in his hand, running his fingers through his beard. Apparently taken aback by his earnest words, Fiddleford sniffled, the corners of his eyes growing damp. He blinked, unable to keep the tears at bay. Gently, Ford wiped them away.

“G-Golly...” He let out a small, embarrassed chuckle. “Ya’ really mean it.”

“Of course I do,” Ford said, his soul swelling with a feeling he hadn’t experienced in this intensity for years, a feeling that— before today— he wasn’t sure he was still capable of experiencing. Although perhaps it wasn’t accurate classifying it as only a feeling, so much as it was a promise. A promise he’d forged within the deepest parts of himself to protect and care for and experience life alongside this man for as long as time would allow him. “All these years, all our experiences, the very shifting of our worlds... so much has changed, I admit this. Hell, I _embrace_ this. And yet, even through the shadows of everything still unknown to me, through each unpredictable variable, there’s one universal constant I know in certainty to be true... and that’s that I love you. I’ve _always_ loved you.”

For a moment, Fiddleford’s mind went blank, just like the confused, muddled fuzz he’d experience each time he used that dang memory gun on himself. Did he really hear those words? Was this real, and not merely a construct of his old, messed up mind? For years, despite his frazzled memory, the man had never truly left his deepest thoughts. Sometimes he’d even show up in front of him like a mirror to the past, an illusion only shattered when he tried to take his hand. But the hands holding his face now were solid and warm and _fixed_. This time, the Stanford Pines in front of him was real, and the promises he spoke were too.

The next moment was all but a blur to him. All he knew was that he suddenly found himself leaning closer... and giving him a sloppy, yearning kiss.

Ford fell into the rhythm of the kiss with ease, wrapping his arms tight around Fiddleford, allowing his hands to cradle the back of his head and his shoulder. His heart almost wanted to laugh in joy amid all of this at the gentle tickle of his beard against his lips and chin. For one very real, beautiful moment, the universe smiled down upon these two old men, and Ford experienced a sense of content like he never had before. When they finally pulled apart, he felt alight. Renewed. He beamed at Fidds with adoration, intertwining their hands once more.

In all these years Fiddleford never felt so much romantic love for another person. He gazed into Ford's eyes, the tiredness he had seen in them from last night having long melted away. “I love you too,” he replied, breathless in the wonder of it all.

Ford laughed softly, a sound that nearly blurred into something of a relieved cry. He pressed his forehead against Fidds, and allowed them to gently sway back and forth as a unit, their fingers still wrapped together. It was almost a dance, the two of them swathed in the privacy of nature and the heat of the late morning sun. Faint, but still noticeable all the same, the familiar scent of tackle filled his nose.

"Is the lake nearby?" he asked, still swaying with him.

"Hm?" Fiddleford said in a happy daze. "Oh! Yeah, I reckon' we're close! There's a lotta good spots for banjo practice n’ relaxin’ there! Wanna head on over?"

"Of course," Ford said, grinning as well. "The lake was always one of my favorite places in Gravity Falls..."

Fiddleford started to pull him along. "Well, come along then!”

 

* * *

 

 

The closer the two came to the lakeside, the more Fiddleford’s pace receded and slowed. He was trying to calm his anxieties, but he knew his son was working in the bait shop today, and not only that, but the townsfolk could be so cruel in their jeering sometimes. On any other occasion he’d shrug off these realities like water off a duck’s back, but along with his memory’s return came his long forgotten sense of shame. He prayed there wouldn’t be any problems, that he and Ford would be left to their leisure unbothered.

But he still wasn’t convinced.

Ford eventually must have noticed his incessant twitching and squirming, because he squeezed his hand to ground him. “What’s bothering you, dear?” he asked softly, the lakeside looming on the horizon.

“Hm?” he muttered, snapping out of whatever repetitive mental blockade he’d fallen into. Ford’s worried face greeted his gaze. “Oh, it’s nothin’! I’m just spacing out a little.” _Not entirely a lie._

“Fiddleford... please know I’ll listen to anything you have to say, if you’re ready to say it. No matter what.”

His shoulders tensed for a moment, scrunching up beside his neck. He took his hand from his partner’s, twiddled his fingers together. “All- all right. I don’t, uh, I don’t exactly have the best reputation in town.”

Ford’s eyes softened. “I know the feeling,” he said. “From my time in the multiverse. I’m so sorry they’ve judged you so harshly. If you’re not up for walking around the lake with all the people who are here today, I’m more than willing to continue our trek through the woods instead.”

“Nah, nah, it’s fine,” he replied, breaking a small smile again. “There’s actually someone I wanna see.”

“Oh, you have a friend in town? Excellent! I’d love to meet them.”

He started to fidget with his beard again. “You already have. It’s my son, Tate! He’s the ranger at this here lake.”

Ford’s eyes shot open wide, for a split second flashing with an emotion Fiddleford could only hope to describe as something between hurt and dread. “Tate?” he exclaimed. “Tate _lives_ here?”

“Yup, moved on up and started workin’ here right outta school.”

“Goodness, I... I haven’t seen that boy since the week he stayed with us in ’81,” he mused. Something about his demeanor as he spoke still seemed... unusual to Fiddleford, but too distracted by his own worries he chose not to bring it up.

“Well, I can guarantee he’s grown up a whole lot since then!”

“So I’m sure,” Ford said, the edges of his lips curving up.

As per every weekend, the lake was crowded with townsfolk enjoying themselves in the sun. Fiddleford clung to his partner’s side as they approached the shore, readying himself emotionally for all the misplaced attention his presence was sure to attract. He squeezed his hand, and Ford squeezed his back in an effort of comfort, three times.  

Where Ford himself was concerned, the glimpse of townsfolk he caught— some he vaguely recognized, and others who were all but strangers— spiked his heart rate up. This was the largest group of humans he’d been faced with since returning home. Hell, even a simple family breakfast alongside his brother, Fiddleford, and his new grandniece and grandnephew was nerve wracking enough. He dearly hoped he’d be able to act halfway normal around these strangers, to act as if he hadn’t been entirely detached from the customs of humanity for thirty years.

They reached the dock, and naught a breath after their feet touched the wooden planks, an older woman with a beehive of powder blue hair and caked eye shadow spotted them and made her sinister advance.

“Well hi, Stan!” she said nasally. “Haven’t seen ya’ in the diner for a while. And wow, what a nice sweater that is!”

Initially Ford was met with nothing but confusion, before he realized with frenzied frustration that his brother had lived here and build a rapport with these people for the past thirty years. They thought he was Stan. As much as he didn’t desire to have a conversation with this woman at all, however, he knew this was a great opportunity to set the records straight...

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve actually met?” he began. “I think you’ve confused me with my twin brother, Stan. My name is Ford.”

“Wait, whaaat?” she gasped, lifting up her lazy eyelid to gain a better view of him. “Well, I guess your hair is styled a lot different than I last saw it. And you _do_ have more fingers than I remember...”

“Heh,” Ford laughed softly, nervously glancing between her and Fiddleford. “Indeed. It’s called polydactyly.” He raised his hand up so she could clearly see it. “A genetic mutation, resulting in extra digits. For future reference, between Stan and I, just check the number of fingers.”

“Oh, all right! My name’s Susan, by the way, Lazy Susan! ‘S nice to meet you.” They awkwardly shook in greeting. As they did so, she leaned closer to whisper in his ears. “Between you and me, I’d watch myself around that hillbilly fella you’re with. I’ve dealt with him in my diner for years, and he’s quite the pickpocket.”

Ford’s jaw clenched. Even ignoring the sheer level of ignorant judgement interwoven into her words, his blood boiled at the cavalier way she referred to him. _That hillbilly_. They lived in a town small enough that everyone could reasonably know everyone else’s name, and either she hadn’t made that tinniest effort with someone she perceived as lesser, or she knew his name and didn’t care.

“His name is Fiddleford, for the record, not ‘that hillbilly,’ and he’s my most dear friend. I assure you, the person I ought to watch myself around? It isn’t him,” he said, scowling deeply at her. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

 With that, Ford took Fiddleford's hand and walked him away.

Fiddleford was stunned with how protective Ford had gotten. It was actually quite flattering. He never considered hillbilly the worst thing people could call him, but he had to admit it did sting the callous way a lot of the townsfolk would sling that word at him. He leaned closer to Ford and nuzzled his head against his side as a way of thanking him. As they neared the bait shop, they became aware of an almighty ruckus emanating from inside. Clearly whoever wandered inside had no concept of indoor voice.

"Welp, sounds like Dan and the kids are shoppin' again!" Fidds declared, a skip in his step.

"Dan?" Ford says, making a face as he tried to place the name. "Wait... do you mean _that_ Dan? The lumberjack? Oh, what was his name... Corduroy!” he exclaimed, snapping. “Boyish Dan Corduroy? He still lives here too?"

"Yeah, he lives in a cabin down in the woods with his kids! But, uh..."

The three Corduroy boys piled out of the shop all at once, adorned in matching life preservers and each holding a pole. "FISHING! FISHING! FISHING!" they chanted.

"KEEP THE CHANGE, RANGER!" Dan yelled.

"He ain't exactly _boyish_ , anymore.”

Ford watched, mouth agape, as the mountain of a man dutifully lead his sons to the shoreline, where he’d tied up their boat. Wow. That was perhaps the most hair he'd ever seen on a single person. That young Corduroy kid certainly grew up into one manly fellow.

“He had a bit of a growth spurt,” Fiddleford giggled as he walked him inside the shop.

Inside, Tate rubbed his sore neck. Just seconds previously, Dan put him in an affectionate chokehold as an unconventional way to thank him for a discount he'd given.

"One of these days he's gonna pop my head off like a grape," he grumbled, not yet paying attention who had just walked in.

Instantly Fiddleford's fatherly instincts overrode his initial nervousness. He let go of Ford's hand and lifted himself onto the counter, swinging his legs over the edge. "You all right there, Tater-tot?" he asked, voice unusually calm.

"Hm? Dad?" Immediately Tate noticed the difference in his voice. For one thing, he hadn't heard that nickname since he was a kid. Was this one of his more lucid days? He glanced up to speak, but froze when he noticed who stood beside him, decades of guilt written on his face plain as day.

Cleft chin, six fingers, a leaner body type than the so-called ‘Stanford Pines’ he'd neglected to get to know in town.

"I— it's you.”

“Greetings, Tate,” Ford said quietly. “It’s… been a while.”

"A while?!" Tate snapped then, clenching his fists tight against his side. "You have the nerve to waltz in here after 30 years, after the state you left my father in, and all you have to say for yourself is that it’s been a _while?!_ No phone call! No letters! No way of contactin' ya! The rest of the town never noticed the difference when that other Stan acted as your cover all this time, but I _did!”_ he shouted, advancing towards him in fury. “I genuinely thought you died!"

"Tate—" Fiddleford attempted to interrupt, jumping off the counter to stand between his son and his partner.

"Why did you leave him?!" Tate yelled, his voice starting to crack. "Why did you leave my father behind? He needed your help! _I_ needed your help to save him!" he finished, bitter tears streaming down his face.

Ford backed away from him slightly as he watched him fall apart right in front of him, his throat suddenly feeling as tight as it did in the elevator this morning. "I didn't know," he whispered hoarsely. "Didn't know where he went, if he left town or not. I lost him, Tate- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know it's my fault. I was distracted, falling into madness... I-I failed to look, I didn't- didn't think to," he stammered. "You have every right to be upset with me for- for a multitude of reasons."

"Yer damn right I'm upset! You abandoned him!" He wrapped his arms around his father, almost protectively.

"Tate..." Fiddleford looked up at his son worriedly. "He didn't want to leave me! He was forced into a right pickle with no way back," he cried out. "You gotta believe me, he wouldn't knowingly abandon me!”

"Why... why are you defendin' him?"

"Same reason I'd defend you," Fiddleford whimpered, hugging him back.

"And why would you do that, either?!" Tate snapped, holding him tighter. "I'm a horrible son. I started givin' up on ya’..."

Ford watched them silently as he considered his words, their past, the sum of his mistakes. A lump formed in his throat. He wrung his hands together.

"Tate..." he began softly. "Tate. You're not a horrible son. You... you stayed here with him, for thirty years. You picked up your entire life, and moved it so you could keep an eye on him. Even if you started giving up, at least you tried. It's... more than I can say for myself." He turned towards Fiddleford, gently cupping his cheek in his hand. "Fidds, I'm afraid he's right about me. I had all but abandoned you, had given up all hope of seeing you again... until Mabel told me you were in town. Like I told you earlier, we only reunited because of her. But don't you both realize?" He opened himself to both the McGucket men. "Despite all of our past mistakes, despite lasting regrets. We're all together today. And we all have a chance to make tomorrow a happier memory."

Both the Mcgucket men stared at Ford for a moment before Tate broke the silence.

"Damn, you’re still as overly poetic as I remember," he snarked. He wiped the remainders of the tears off his face, letting out a stifled, low laugh. "Damnit... damnit, I knew it... I knew I couldn't hate ya’!" he lifted the brim of his hat, revealing tired eyes and faint scaring slashed over his eyelids. "You’re here admitting everythin' and..." He laughed again. "What's wrong with me? I'm already ready to give ya’ the benefit of the doubt..."

"Tate," Fiddleford took his son's hand.

"I'm fine, Dad."

“Would you… would you prefer if I gave you two some time alone to reconnect?” Ford asked, a slight frown crossing his lips.

"Nah, nah just—" Tate let go of his father’s hand and pulled himself to sit on the counter. He hung his head low, and gave a loud sigh. "Just tell me... what happened. I want the full story."


End file.
